My writing is a little bit of everywhere right now. Mostly on my other blog, which receives more traffic than this one. I'm not ready to drive more traffic here because some of the blurbs posted are sensitive. It's not that I don't feel like sharing them, I'm just not sure I want droves of readers poring over some of my darkest memories.
The goal is to transfer over the poetry and things I've shared on the other blog, but I'm not sure when that will happen. I also wish I could share more about my novel here... and maybe I will.... We'll see.
Tuesday, October 30, 2012
Saturday, July 7, 2012
Nerd Love
Your syllables wrap around my heart.
Your profile picture fills my dreams.
I want to fill your monitor with my :-*.
When you log out, you take my breath with you.
Counting the moments until I see your screen name again.
<3
~~
Inspired by virtually real events and avatars all over the world.
Thursday, July 5, 2012
About What I Know... A Little More
“Write about what you know, Anne.” That’s was my mother’s knee-jerk response every time I mentioned my idea to finally push my sleeves up and get down to the dirty business of writing a book.
Historically, my mother had always been an undiagnosed romance book junkie, except I couldn’t recall her ever having a moment to herself to read. Instead, she subjected us to countless hours of movie and television adaptations of her favorite love stories. Anne of Green Gables? Absolutely. Jane Eyre (the version starring Timothy Dalton only need apply, thankyouverymuch!)? Yes and yes. If I took the time to do the math, Mom had probably spent years of her life engrossed in someone else’s love, and nearly always from a completely different era. Writing about what I knew, advice from L. M. Montgomery’s leading fella, Gilbert Blythe, to Anne Shirley, his future Mrs. Blythe, was a tall order. I hadn’t led a life full of hijinks, ambition, or flirtation. I’d never tried (and failed) to balance on the a ridgepole of a house, found the courage to spit out biting remarks to hateful gossips, or confronted my boss about the deranged lady imprisoned in his attic.
The list of subjects I knew resembled a hastily-scribbled note for forgotten items from my last shopping trip. Topics I had little to no knowledge of likely could fill volumes of books, which could, in turn, pour out endlessly from countless rooms.
‘Writing what you know’ sounds like the easiest task in the world, especially to a self-proclaimed writer. But what happens if you write what you know and it’s so minuscule you can’t bear it?
What if the words staring back at you when they’ve all poured out are dull, pathetic, horrifying or a depressing cocktail of all of the above? Maybe readers will lack the patience for my sniveling that my loved ones do because, well, they’re somehow morally obligated. Instead of holding the title of “spoiled brat” within the warped confines of my family, the rest of the world will nod in agreement and I’ll be screwed. For life. Or until every last character I’ve put to page falls from memory, which, admittedly, is likely time measured in minutes rather than years.
“Write!” They insist. “You’re so funny. You need to write!”
It’s been my experience that people are usually funny for a reason. Making people laugh is the human equivalent of a turtle shell. Find a comedian and dig real deep, and eight times out of ten you’ll figure it out pretty quick. Fat pants, crater-y face, sloshed dad, family in tatters--bet that kid ended up a laugh riot. Those who are wounded find unique ways to protect themselves and float along.
Historically, my mother had always been an undiagnosed romance book junkie, except I couldn’t recall her ever having a moment to herself to read. Instead, she subjected us to countless hours of movie and television adaptations of her favorite love stories. Anne of Green Gables? Absolutely. Jane Eyre (the version starring Timothy Dalton only need apply, thankyouverymuch!)? Yes and yes. If I took the time to do the math, Mom had probably spent years of her life engrossed in someone else’s love, and nearly always from a completely different era. Writing about what I knew, advice from L. M. Montgomery’s leading fella, Gilbert Blythe, to Anne Shirley, his future Mrs. Blythe, was a tall order. I hadn’t led a life full of hijinks, ambition, or flirtation. I’d never tried (and failed) to balance on the a ridgepole of a house, found the courage to spit out biting remarks to hateful gossips, or confronted my boss about the deranged lady imprisoned in his attic.
The list of subjects I knew resembled a hastily-scribbled note for forgotten items from my last shopping trip. Topics I had little to no knowledge of likely could fill volumes of books, which could, in turn, pour out endlessly from countless rooms.
‘Writing what you know’ sounds like the easiest task in the world, especially to a self-proclaimed writer. But what happens if you write what you know and it’s so minuscule you can’t bear it?
What if the words staring back at you when they’ve all poured out are dull, pathetic, horrifying or a depressing cocktail of all of the above? Maybe readers will lack the patience for my sniveling that my loved ones do because, well, they’re somehow morally obligated. Instead of holding the title of “spoiled brat” within the warped confines of my family, the rest of the world will nod in agreement and I’ll be screwed. For life. Or until every last character I’ve put to page falls from memory, which, admittedly, is likely time measured in minutes rather than years.
“Write!” They insist. “You’re so funny. You need to write!”
It’s been my experience that people are usually funny for a reason. Making people laugh is the human equivalent of a turtle shell. Find a comedian and dig real deep, and eight times out of ten you’ll figure it out pretty quick. Fat pants, crater-y face, sloshed dad, family in tatters--bet that kid ended up a laugh riot. Those who are wounded find unique ways to protect themselves and float along.
Wednesday, July 4, 2012
About What I Know
“Write about what you know, Anne.” That’s was my mother’s knee-jerk response every time I mentioned my idea to finally get down to writing a book. Historically, my mother had always been an undiagnosed romance book junkie, except I couldn’t recall her ever having a moment to herself to read. Instead, she subjected us to countless hours of movie and television adaptations of her favorite love stories. Anne of Green Gables? Absolutely. Jane Eyre (the version starring Timothy Dalton only need apply, thankyouverymuch!)? Yes and yes. If I took the time to do the math, Mom had probably spent months of her life engrossed in someone else’s love, and nearly always from a completely different era. Writing about what I knew, advice from L. M. Montgomery’s leading fella, Gilbert Blythe, to his future Mrs. Blythe, was a tall order. I hadn’t led a life full of hijinks, ambition, or flirtation. The list of subjects I knew resembled a hastily-scribbled note for forgotten items from my last shopping trip. Topics I had little to no knowledge of likely could fill volumes of books, which could, in turn, pour out endlessly from countless rooms.
‘Writing what you know’ sounds like the easiest task in the world. But what happens if you write what you know and it’s so minuscule you can’t bear it?
‘Writing what you know’ sounds like the easiest task in the world. But what happens if you write what you know and it’s so minuscule you can’t bear it?
Wednesday, June 27, 2012
Rebirth
I have never been swift.
With you, I challenge the wind.
I have never been graceful.
With you, I waltz effortlessly like the tide.
I have never been beautiful.
With you, I am the painted sunset.
I have never felt harmonious.
With you, I am all fragments complete.
With you, I challenge the wind.
I have never been graceful.
With you, I waltz effortlessly like the tide.
I have never been beautiful.
With you, I am the painted sunset.
I have never felt harmonious.
With you, I am all fragments complete.
Monday, April 30, 2012
Assistance Needed in Aisle 12
I'm looking to put a group together to be my sounding-board for this draft of my book and all subsequent drafts. Basically, I need people who are capable of picking apart my words like a bunch of vultures. And I think the feedback keeps me motivated. Let me know if you are interested. I can't promise compensation, but I can promise a special thanks to you if and when this book ever gets "out there".
xoxo
xoxo
Sunday, February 21, 2010
Love Never Fails
Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It is not rude, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. Love never fails.
***
He has broken the silence that seemed to span a millennia, but in actuality was only a month or two. I answer the call with heart fluttering and stomach churning. Deep inside, I am angry with myself at how eager I am to hear his voice, to hear that I am not alone in this. It doesn't occur to me until later that he is the last thing I should be worried about, that he is causing far more harm than good. In a feeble attempt to find privacy in my parents' home, I retreat to the basement, my instinctual movement restricted, like a tethered animal, to the radius of the phone cord. My hand rests protectively around my round belly, feeling my unborn child kick and squirm beneath my touch. I wonder if the baby senses and is reacting to the anxiety, the unrest that is covering me in this moment.
In sheer panic, I had employed all the insecure girl tactics in the month or so I'd been left alone to my own devices. Letters? I'd written them, probably more than I could count and certainly more than he was interested in reading. Phone calls? I'd made them, to the point that he was taking his phone off the hook every evening when he got home from whatever it was he filled his days with now. It was painfully obvious to both of us that I had handed him my heart in one hand and total control of the situation in the other. In my quest to make the halves in my life a whole, I had made a mockery of myself.
He speaks haltingly, which I correctly interpret to be a horrible, horrible sign--though this is, perhaps, the sole time in our entire relationship that he has pretended to have the slightest regard to my feelings, and therefore selects his words with the tiniest bit of care. I imagine it takes a great deal of restraint for him to not tell me what he really thinks of me, but that offers him much more courtesy than he deserves. Any care he takes in breaking my heart is not enough. He doesn't want me. He doesn't want me. He doesn't want me...
He does, however, think it is important to let me know he wants to make a life with another. And, to add insult to injury, I suppose, I ask if he wants to marry her. He stumbles, tells me he doesn't know, maybe. Would it have made the revelation okay, somehow, if he was getting married? I have never figured out what makes women do that to themselves--to ask for more information than we need, to eviscerate ourselves further as if the rejection itself wasn't painful enough.
He is sure that I would like her, that we would get along, as if it should matter either way, as if we will be spending family holidays together..... and--oh! Did I forget to mention?--Our child has a half-brother, he reveals, six weeks old already. I hear the smile in his voice as he talks about his flesh-and-blood son, the pride of a father radiating as he shares the child's name. This other baby is the apple of his grandmother's eye. In this moment, I have lost all knowledge of space and time. We are having empty conversations about baby names and only God knows what else. I am empty, and he is full, and I am letting words spill from my lips just because I am afraid to hang up the phone and there be nothing. Nothing and nothing and having to replay this all again and again.
He hangs up the phone and a weight is lifted from his shoulders. I hang up the phone and I realize I will be late for work if I don't hurry. He feels he has done his penance, has set himself free. I feel nothing, utterly blank inside other than to register that I feel broken and bleeding as I watch the unsympathetic red and blue flashing lights dance endlessly in my rear-view mirror. This day feels like the death of me.
She calls several days later, prying back the corners of wounds that are only just beginning to knit together. She, of course, had been the one to force his previous earth-shattering phone call. It should have been obvious to me that he wouldn't have done such a thing without a motivating force. The entire time she speaks to me like we are comrades, friends, even--like we will be forever bonded, and it is time we learned about one another. Time has worn thin the threads of much of the conversation now, but she matter-of-factly reveals that she unearthed a collection of my unopened letters when visiting him one day. After reading them herself she, whether self-sacrificially or borne of some other female emotion I can't yet comprehend, told him that I needed him more than she did. How much of this conversation is crafted out of sheer cunning and how much is genuine empathy, I do not know. I pray to God it will all end soon so I can crawl away to a corner to lick my wounds by myself. Soon my prayer is answered, and we have nothing left to discuss. We hang up, neither friends nor enemies.
It's plain to see I am decimated once again, but I shove the pieces of my life aside because it is all I can do to continue breathing. Amidst the carnage, the faintest shiver of light in the choking darkness is that I can finally move beyond him and maybe, just maybe, someday soar above him. It is far too soon for me to embrace this truth, and, instead, I wipe the tears from my eyes, clench my teeth, and write off all hopes of love in exchange for taking care of responsibility.
***
He has broken the silence that seemed to span a millennia, but in actuality was only a month or two. I answer the call with heart fluttering and stomach churning. Deep inside, I am angry with myself at how eager I am to hear his voice, to hear that I am not alone in this. It doesn't occur to me until later that he is the last thing I should be worried about, that he is causing far more harm than good. In a feeble attempt to find privacy in my parents' home, I retreat to the basement, my instinctual movement restricted, like a tethered animal, to the radius of the phone cord. My hand rests protectively around my round belly, feeling my unborn child kick and squirm beneath my touch. I wonder if the baby senses and is reacting to the anxiety, the unrest that is covering me in this moment.
In sheer panic, I had employed all the insecure girl tactics in the month or so I'd been left alone to my own devices. Letters? I'd written them, probably more than I could count and certainly more than he was interested in reading. Phone calls? I'd made them, to the point that he was taking his phone off the hook every evening when he got home from whatever it was he filled his days with now. It was painfully obvious to both of us that I had handed him my heart in one hand and total control of the situation in the other. In my quest to make the halves in my life a whole, I had made a mockery of myself.
He speaks haltingly, which I correctly interpret to be a horrible, horrible sign--though this is, perhaps, the sole time in our entire relationship that he has pretended to have the slightest regard to my feelings, and therefore selects his words with the tiniest bit of care. I imagine it takes a great deal of restraint for him to not tell me what he really thinks of me, but that offers him much more courtesy than he deserves. Any care he takes in breaking my heart is not enough. He doesn't want me. He doesn't want me. He doesn't want me...
He does, however, think it is important to let me know he wants to make a life with another. And, to add insult to injury, I suppose, I ask if he wants to marry her. He stumbles, tells me he doesn't know, maybe. Would it have made the revelation okay, somehow, if he was getting married? I have never figured out what makes women do that to themselves--to ask for more information than we need, to eviscerate ourselves further as if the rejection itself wasn't painful enough.
He is sure that I would like her, that we would get along, as if it should matter either way, as if we will be spending family holidays together..... and--oh! Did I forget to mention?--Our child has a half-brother, he reveals, six weeks old already. I hear the smile in his voice as he talks about his flesh-and-blood son, the pride of a father radiating as he shares the child's name. This other baby is the apple of his grandmother's eye. In this moment, I have lost all knowledge of space and time. We are having empty conversations about baby names and only God knows what else. I am empty, and he is full, and I am letting words spill from my lips just because I am afraid to hang up the phone and there be nothing. Nothing and nothing and having to replay this all again and again.
He hangs up the phone and a weight is lifted from his shoulders. I hang up the phone and I realize I will be late for work if I don't hurry. He feels he has done his penance, has set himself free. I feel nothing, utterly blank inside other than to register that I feel broken and bleeding as I watch the unsympathetic red and blue flashing lights dance endlessly in my rear-view mirror. This day feels like the death of me.
She calls several days later, prying back the corners of wounds that are only just beginning to knit together. She, of course, had been the one to force his previous earth-shattering phone call. It should have been obvious to me that he wouldn't have done such a thing without a motivating force. The entire time she speaks to me like we are comrades, friends, even--like we will be forever bonded, and it is time we learned about one another. Time has worn thin the threads of much of the conversation now, but she matter-of-factly reveals that she unearthed a collection of my unopened letters when visiting him one day. After reading them herself she, whether self-sacrificially or borne of some other female emotion I can't yet comprehend, told him that I needed him more than she did. How much of this conversation is crafted out of sheer cunning and how much is genuine empathy, I do not know. I pray to God it will all end soon so I can crawl away to a corner to lick my wounds by myself. Soon my prayer is answered, and we have nothing left to discuss. We hang up, neither friends nor enemies.
It's plain to see I am decimated once again, but I shove the pieces of my life aside because it is all I can do to continue breathing. Amidst the carnage, the faintest shiver of light in the choking darkness is that I can finally move beyond him and maybe, just maybe, someday soar above him. It is far too soon for me to embrace this truth, and, instead, I wipe the tears from my eyes, clench my teeth, and write off all hopes of love in exchange for taking care of responsibility.
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